by Mark Mannock
“Abe, I’ve no answer for you there. If I did, you would already know, but I’ve got to tell you, in my gut I’m certain she’s part of the plan,” I said.
“And it’s because of that we’ve set up the system you requested,” replied the special agent.
“Let me talk you through it.”
Chapter 33
The lights across the Rose Garden glimmered like fireflies dancing in the darkness. An array of designer table settings covered the length and breadth of the space. The Sudanese national colors—red, white, black, and green—dominated. While most of the tables were round, there was a longer, rectangular table at the southern end. This was for the A-team; the president’s party, including his guest of honor. To the right of that was a small stage with a podium featuring an eagle’s crest; that’s where the speeches would happen.
The VIP guests would arrive soon. White House staff, entertainers, and caterers scurried about under the watchful eye of the Secret Service. Agents dressed in black suits hovered everywhere, with many more stationed across the whole complex. Tactical teams on standby remained hidden in undisclosed parts of the grounds.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” said Greatrex, who had materialized beside me.
“Sure is,” I responded. “When the president of the United States of America throws a party, it’s certain to be a hell of a show.”
Greatrex nodded.
“Have you got the final running order?” I asked.
“Yup. After the initial pomp and ceremony of the presidential entrance, the president will receive his guests in the Blue Room. After that, once everyone has moved out here, the culinary part of the event begins while the United States Marine Band plays a selection of dinner music.”
As Greatrex spoke, he waved his hand toward the buildings on the north and west sides of the garden. They’d set microphones up for the musicians under the porticos on both sides. Ordered in single rows, each musician would be bathed in individual light. It made for a very dynamic look. Members of the band were just starting to take their places. On the roof of the west portico, the rest of the band, lit by floodlights, would overlook the diners.
“After the main course,” continued Greatrex, “a small Sudanese group, comprising both Western and traditional African instruments, will perform.”
“That worried me when I was first told about it,” I said, “but Abe Peterson assures me the musicians have been vetted and there is no security risk with any of them.”
“I say we still keep a close eye on them,” replied the big fella.
“Absolutely.”
Greatrex continued with the rundown. “After the Sudanese band’s performance, it’s time for the speeches. Both presidents will have their moment in the spotlight as the Sudanese president presents a traditional Sudanese lyre to Jefferson Blake.”
“I’m told that they’ve checked out the instrument being presented in every possible way. The strings have even been secured so no one can remove them to use as a garrote,” I said.
“They’re certainly taking no chances.”
“No, we are dealing with the highest standard of professionalism—Abe Peterson and his men know their stuff.” I hoped I sounded confident.
“Anyway,” continued Greatrex, “straight after the presentation and the speeches, they’ll serve dessert and you guys hit the stage. I’m thinking that’s when the evening may loosen up a bit.”
It would be very difficult to listen to P.D. Bailey perform his iconic brand of soul and blues without relaxing into the infectiousness of his music.
“So,” I said, “when is the situation the most vulnerable? If the Shararaa intend to strike tonight, when will it be?”
The question was rhetorical. Despite all the professionals that had prepared for this event, nobody had a single clue.
Chapter 34
“The president is upstairs in the Yellow Oval Room entertaining the Sudanese leader and some high-ranking officials from both governments,” announced Abe Peterson, appearing behind us. “I’m heading straight up there now, and I won’t be leaving the president’s side until the evening is over.”
I glanced at Peterson. He looked as alert as a fox, but he couldn’t hide the creases around his eyes that gave away his tiredness. Jefferson Blake’s principles had taken their toll on this man.
“Have you seen anything that seems out of place?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I responded. “All the musicians are doing musician-type things, no one stands out. All the other staff seem focused on their immediate tasks. I’ve noticed nobody casing the place.”
“My men said the same thing. They’re all aware you two are here and why. You’ve got a free pass to roam around as much as you like. Just let us know…”
“We’ll tell you if we see anything out of the ordinary.” Greatrex finished the agent’s sentence for him.
The two of us wandered through the area. As we reached the northern end of the space, there was a bit of commotion. The musicians from the Sudanese group had arrived, now heading toward the stage to tune their instruments. They’d been told to leave them after their sound check in the afternoon. Musicians don’t enjoy being too far from their instruments; to them, they are like family and should be kept close.
Greatrex and I inspected each band member as they passed us. There was nothing familiar about any of them. While I held total faith in the White House vetting process, I held more faith in our own judgment. In preparation, Jack and I went over pictures of every known Shararaa associate and every possible acquaintance of Atha Riek. All we saw in the band were warm, smiling faces.
It was time to test my back-up plan. Fixed to a button on each of Greatrex and my jackets was a small camera. The cameras linked directly to a room in the adjacent treasury building where Salah Bahri was monitoring a screen. Two experienced Secret Service agents and an FBI operative accompanied him. We were all in the same communication loop. My thinking was that there was a possibility that Salah may note some movement, some bit of body language that would give Sua’d away if she had disguised her appearance and been able to make it this far. No one can read a person’s body language like their spouse. The idea was far-fetched, but Abe Peterson agreed to it. When you are all out of ideas, anything is worth trying.
“Can you hear me, Salah?” I asked.
“Sure, Mr. Sharp,” came Salah’s voice into my earbud.
“We just passed the musicians; did you spot anything?”
“No, sir, nothing familiar. I know I would have recognized Sua’d no matter how she altered her look.”
I reckoned the same, yet it was disappointing. Salah told us that Sua’d played the violin when she was at school. I thought we may have had a break there, but clearly not.
“We’ll check out all the Sudanese guests and government officials the same way, as we come across them,” I said. “Stay alert.”
In the distance, the strains of ‘Hail to the Chief’ emanated from the White House itself. President Blake and his daughter Cassandra were about to make their entrance. I caught Greatrex’s attention, and we wandered over.
They say the British do pageantry better than anybody, but the sight of Jefferson Blake and his daughter accompanied by the Sudanese president and his spouse, descending the stairs to the resounding applause of their elegantly dressed guests put the Brits on notice.
There was applause at their entrance and more applause when the band played the Sudanese national anthem. The two presidents then formally greeted each guest as they lined up: American hospitality at the highest level.
Just as it had been that night in Khartoum several months earlier when the presidents last met at a social gathering, the room was a mass of color and vibrancy. Among the black dinner suits were the regal gowns of the Washington socialites combined with some stunning greens, reds and yellows worn by the Sudanese.
I’d studied the guest list carefully. It consisted of the politically important, the businessmen attem
pting to break into a fresh market, the pillars of the US Sudanese community and members of the visiting Sudanese entourage.
I supposed it looked odd as Greatrex and I moved around, working the room, attempting to get a shot of any relevant face we could find. I felt like a social misfit looking for a group to join, as I elbowed my way into several small gatherings while lining up an image for the camera.
“Anything at all?” I asked into the microphone clipped onto my sleeve.
“Nothing, sir,” Salah responded.
I kept moving, watching, worrying. Across the garden, I saw Greatrex doing the same.
I found it impossible to reconcile that someone here planned to assassinate these two world leaders… well, almost impossible.
Chapter 35
An hour later, the Rose Garden was a hive of conversation. The Marine Band played, and the guests at the tables did whatever they came here to do, chatting, networking, social climbing, scoring political points.
At the head table, Jefferson Blake appeared relaxed and in control. He knew the stakes; he knew the dangers. The man was either naïve, or he had implicit trust in those protecting him; I would never have described this president as naïve.
For the thousandth time, I scanned the room, trying to take in each face as a separate entity, a separate threat. I had nothing.
Achieving little else, I went over to the entertainers’ tent some distance away from the crowd. I needed to check in with P.D. and the band. My invitation to the event did say musician.
“Hey, Nicholas,” called Brian Pitt, our drummer. “What about all this?” he asked, waving his arm toward the manicured lawn and the VIP diners. “Who would have thought?”
“I’ve played some dives, and I’ve played some big shows,” added Barry Flannigan, our veteran bass player, “but I’ll tell you, playing at the White House is something special.” There wasn’t much Barry hadn’t done. In all the times we’d shared a stage, I’d never seen him flustered by anything. This moment seemed as ‘in awe’ as he got.
“Well hello, Nicholas, how’s my favorite keys-man this evening?” There was no mistaking the raspy voice of the inimitable P.D. Bailey. “You look a little on edge,” he added.
“Just inspired by the moment, P.D.” I replied.
“Son, I’ve played here for four US presidents. It’s always a big do.”
Four presidents, impressive résumé.
“I’ll tell you two things. Number one, I reckon this guy, Blake, is my favorite. He’s the real thing,” he continued.
I nodded in agreement. “And?”
“For all the times I’ve been here, I’ve never felt tension in the air like I’m sensing here tonight. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
A very observant man was our P.D. Bailey.
“No, sir, I can’t say I do.”
I looked to the ground. Who would lie to an American icon?
I strolled back toward the guests, mainly to avoid having to deceive my musician friends any further. Jumaa sat at a table in the center of the garden. He excused himself and walked over to me.
“Anything?” he asked.
“That’s the most popular question tonight,” I replied, “but no news.”
“I’ve been trying to mingle with as many of the Sudanese guests as I can,” he continued. “Like everyone else, I’ve found no additional information. Although, it has been difficult to get close to the Sudanese president’s party. They seem on edge and are being extremely protective.”
“That’s probably because they’re as wary of the situation as we are.”
“True, you are most likely right. There are some in his group I could not talk to at all. I wanted to eyeball everyone,” he added with an anxiousness in his voice.
“Keep trying,” I responded. No one within the loop was needlessly reassuring their colleagues tonight.
As I watched my Sudanese friend return to his table, I turned around to see a familiar figure a couple of yards away.
“It’s Nicholas Sharp, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I replied, taking a minute to place the face. Then the penny dropped. “Special Agent Humphries,” I added, recognizing the FBI man from our failed raid in Gaithersburg.
Humphries nodded as we shook hands. Over his shoulder, I saw the Sudanese musicians stepping onto the stage. I wanted to be around when they performed, both for cultural and security reasons. Being stuck in conversation with an FBI agent wasn’t in my plan.
“Abe Peterson asked me along, kind of as an outside view,” the agent began. “From what he told me, that’s somewhat like your role here tonight.”
I nodded. “Pretty much right,” I replied, still staring over his shoulder while trying to conceal my impatience.
“It’s a funny thing,” said Humphries, ignoring my body language. “We got back the test results from the raid on that drug den. It turns out that the bottle you found in the bin had contained Vicodin. Strangely, however, the cannabis rosin sample I took turned out not to be cannabis at all. It was just straight organic rosin.”
I’d half turned away when Humphries words registered. I thought I may have misheard. “What did you say?”
“I said the cannabis rosin wasn’t cannabis at all.”
The band began to play. My brain ran overtime. Vicodin… painkillers… rosin? The most common use for organic rosin is to put on a violin or cello bow, or it would make no sound as it passed over the strings. Vicodin… painkillers… why? Then it hit me.
I knew exactly why.
Chapter 36
“Peterson, I’ve got something,” I yelled into my microphone as I strode toward the stage.
“Position,” came the terse reply.
“Main stage. I’ve got an idea, but no proof…”
“All available agents to the primary stage area, but be subtle, ladies and gents. We’re working on a hunch. Don’t make a scene unless we have to.” Peterson’s instructions energized his team into action.
“Salah, do you have an image?” I asked.
“Yes, standing by, Mr. Sharp, but I see nothing yet.”
“Give me a moment.”
By the time I got to the stage, eight Secret Service agents had gathered at each end. The band played their second piece, while the audience sat enthralled. Nobody would break etiquette to chat while guest musicians performed. That made our job more difficult.
“Salah, I’ll step along the front of the stage, I won’t have long to catch each musician before I need to move on. Focus on the string players.”
“Got it, Mr. Sharp.”
The Secret Service agents tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible, but their hands rested inside their jackets, weapons ready. It wouldn’t do anyone’s career any good to misread the situation, jump too soon, and create a needless panic.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Abe Peterson had left his post behind the president’s table and was headed toward the stage.
As I ambled across the small dance area, Greatrex appeared. I raised my palm to stop him. Salah needed to remain focused only on the image from my camera.
I blocked people’s view, but there was no alternative. At least eight string players performed in the band. I stopped in front of each for as long as reasonable. It didn’t help that six of the eight were female.
“Nothing, nothing, no…” Salah’s tone betrayed no hint of recognition.
I got to the last musician. She played a violin.
“No, nothing.”
I didn’t think myself wrong, but it was sure starting to look that way. At the risk of making a complete fool of myself, I tried for another pass.
“Anything, Salah, search for any telltale.”
“I will, Mr. Sharp, but I have nothing.”
I was wrong, that was all there was to it.
“No… wait, go back one. No, it can’t be, it’s not her, but…”
“But what?” I asked, my voice cracking with urgency.
S
uddenly, it was Salah’s voice that sounded strained, his words rushed. “When Sua’d was a teenager, there was a car accident. She had whiplash; her neck muscles remained permanently damaged. When she played violin, she couldn’t bend her head to the correct angle. She had to use a special extended chin rest to keep her collar straight. That last violinist, the one in the back row, had the same set-up, but it wasn’t Sua’d. I’m certain of that.”
I moved back two steps and stood in front of the violinist. She glanced up at me, just for a second, before burying back down into her music.
“All right, Salah, think outside the square. Imagine if Sua’d had received some major surgery.”
Vicodin—the most common painkiller used after surgery. After plastic surgery.
“No, wait, it’s not possible. That is not my Sua’d, but they are her eyes.”
That was all it took. Abe Peterson, who had been listening to every word, commanded, “I want an agent either side of that violinist now. As the song finishes escort her off the stage and into my office. If she struggles, subdue her. If that doesn’t work, shoot her.”
“No!” echoed the sound of Salah’s voice. My earpiece went dead as they cut him off.
Two Secret Service men stepped up onto the stage.
“Put your instrument down and come with us,” instructed the agent on her right.
For a moment, it looked certain the woman would offer up a fight. Her face contorted as she jumped to her feet.
“No, no… you can’t.”
She struggled wildly as an agent grabbed each arm, her violin and bow crashing to the stage.
“Leave me alone, you don’t know what you’ve done.”
The anger passed as quickly as it arrived. The woman’s shoulders sagged, her legs went limp, the agents now holding her upright. They guided her off the platform, surrounded by a dozen more as their feet touched the ground.
Together, the huddle moved off toward the West Wing.
